


Enough Light To Begin

by wendigo_alderson



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Just some snapshots of their relationship, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rick helping daryl w/ his trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-19 05:30:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19968823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendigo_alderson/pseuds/wendigo_alderson
Summary: Expression has never been Daryl’s strong suit. His preferred means of communication came in the form of grunts, huffs, sighs, or the furrow of his brow. Daryl grew up in a home where words were dangerous things. When he was ten he had mumbled under his breath in lue of giving his father a direct response. He spent three hours in the din of their dirty bathroom that night, plucking shards of glass from the base of his skull.





	Enough Light To Begin

**Author's Note:**

> First and probably only TWD fic. Just some snapshots between the two bc I wanted to do a character study on Daryl. Title is from A Kind of Loss by Ingeborg Bachmann!

Expression has never been Daryl’s strong suit. His preferred means of communication came in the form of grunts, huffs, sighs, or the furrow of his brow. Daryl grew up in a home where words were dangerous things. When he was ten he had mumbled under his breath in lue of giving his father a direct response. He spent three hours in the din of their dirty bathroom that night, plucking shards of glass from the base of his skull. The cuts healed in grisly criss crosses above the tips of his ears, crawling into his hairline, thick scar tissue from constant reopenings. On a Saturday night where the kitchen air is thick with ale, one of his father’s friends remarks drunkenly that Daryl looks like he’s an eighth of the way to full Freddy Krueger, his fat fingers gesturing crudely at his skull. Daryl resolves to grow his hair out the next morning. Of course this backstory is never shared, and he is assumed to simply be a greasy redneck who doesn’t care enough to speak much.

Therefore it’s no surprise how the tension between him and Rick is finally resolved. They’re out on a run together, digging through the toppled shelves of a convenience store, Daryl trying his hardest to pull his eyes away from the small of Rick’s back, exposed as he crouches down to rifle through some cans. Rick moves to the end of the aisle where a few freezers remain standing, racks of food pushed against them, as Daryl grabs a few cans of beans from the opposite shelves. Daryl sees it just before Rick does, a glance in his direction and he sees the walker that has just barely moved around the blind corner. His body kicks into action before his mind even catches up and he’s shoving Rick back, and himself in front of the walker, his knife sinking into its skull just before its gnashing teeth reach the flesh of his bicep. He wrenches the knife out and turns to check on Rick as the body thuds weakly behind him. Rick stares up at him from where he landed on the tiled floor, pupils blown, lips open slightly in shock, adrenaline pumping through his body. Daryl is quick to offer him a hand. Rick stares up at him for a moment, eyes still wide, before mumbling,  
“You saved my life.”  
Then he’s pulling Daryl down, down on top of him and just like that they’re kissing, Rick’s back pressed against the cold floor, Daryl straddling his hips with flecks of blood still caking his shirt. The kiss is merciless, searing, all tongue and teeth and saliva, nails digging into skin, driving home that physical mantra of _“you’re alive, you’re alive, you’re alive”_. Eventually they break apart, Rick’s hand still fisted in his hair and Daryl’s fingers curled tight around his collar.  
They don’t say anything until they get back to the car, sitting in silence for a moment, Rick holding the keys in his hands but not yet going for the ignition. He turns to the man beside him, catching his eye and they shared a serious gaze.  
“You want this?” Rick asks, voice holding a weight of importance, eyes raw and honest. Daryl knows that he needs to respond verbally, has to make it real.  
“Yeah.” He responds gruffly, but his gaze is sincere.

Sometimes he misses the self destruction so much he forgets how to breathe. He forgets how to live when there’s not fists flying, when he’s not learning the 50 states in the shapes of the bruises on his body, cigarette burns on his knuckles, blood in his mouth. He misses the control, the grounding sensation of pain, the smell of burnt flesh and a whispered, _“I deserve this.”_

These are the nights where Rick finds him in their cell, back pressed up against the wall, staring into nothingness, fingernails scratching incessantly at his forearms. The ex-sheriff will kneel in front of him, slowly taking his hand from his skin and holding it tightly between his palms. Daryl’s breathing will hitch before turning shaky, and Rick will hold him as he falls apart, pressing kisses to the crown of his head, where the tails of scars trail lazily in faded lightning bolts.

Daryl pushes himself to speak more when he’s with Rick, offering grumbled compliments and conversation pieces because he likes the way the man smiles so brightly when he speaks. He finds the best snapshots of his life are marked by the stretch of Rick’s smile, the beaming light of his eyes. When Judith speaks her first word, “Dada”, he smiles so big it looks like his face may split in half. Daryl doesn’t mention the glimmer of tears in his eyes, instead placing his palm at the small of his back, a comforting weight in this unhinged world. Rick gives him the most watery, delighted smile at the action, the archer still struggles with the ease of physical intimacy and he doesn’t miss the pride in those blue eyes.

Daryl wishes for a camera when Judith calls him “Dada” two days later, causing Rick to bark out one of the fullest laughs he’s heard in a while. Carl tells him later that’s the first time he’s heard his dad laugh like that since before all this.

They have their ups and downs. They love each other unconditionally but not even love can erase Daryl’s past. Several nights he wakes in a sweat, a scream dying on his lips, Rick shushing him with sweet nothings, peppering kisses all over his tear streaked face, and holding him close. One night after Glenn finds a couple boxes of liquor on a run, Rick comes to bed drunk off his ass, and Daryl has a panic attack, memories swirling in his brain as he cowers, before sprinting off to the guard tower. Rick spends the next week making it up to him, Daryl thoroughly embarrassed by his reaction and Rick poisoned with guilt. But they have their good times too.

  
Rick comes back from a run one afternoon to find Daryl sitting obediently in the grass outside as Judith braids flowers through his hair, and he swears he falls in love all over again, watching his little girl press Red Clovers into the twined locks of his hair. Daryl shoots him a look that says _“Don’t you fucking dare.”_ And he muffles a laugh behind his sleeve, eyes glowing in the afternoon light. There’s something beautiful about seeing him like this, his hard features, sharp edges, softened by the paradoxical crown of flowers in his mane. He takes a moment to admire the way the sunlight hits his face when it’s not obscured by his dark locks, the way his cheekbones shimmer, and the delicate angle of his jaw. It’s moments like these that Rick realizes how lucky he is.  
On one of their uncommon, calm mornings, Rick wakes to the sweep of Daryl’s thumb along his cheek. He lets out a soft hum of contentment, shifting into the touch as he cracks his eyes open to smile lazily at the man across from him. Daryl is in one of his rare states of peace and contentment, his face still soft with sleep, the hard lines of reality absent from his face. His eyes trail down Rick’s face with such an easy warmth, the leader finds his breath hitching softly at the raw honesty of it. After another sweep of the pad of this thumb beneath his eye, Daryl grumbles softly,  
“You’re so beautiful,”  
Rick stares up at him with wide eyes, full of love at the rare compliment, the easiness of mornings. The archer just continues to trace his features with those gentle eyes, and Rick holds onto the gentility every second he gets it, reveling in the ability to be awake when the world around them is not yet so.


End file.
